


(and then she made my lips hurt)

by Hinterlands



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Budding Relationship, F/F, Vaginal Fingering, i have not played a single minute of this game but i love every lady in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I said that we should get to know each other better,” Tracer begins, one hand clutching threadbare sheets, the other resting against the ridge of a broad, muscled shoulder, fingers curled idly, “This wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, love.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	(and then she made my lips hurt)

“When I said that we should get to know each other better,” Tracer begins, one hand clutching threadbare sheets, the other resting against the ridge of a broad, muscled shoulder, fingers curled idly, “This wasn’t _quite_ what I’d had in mind, love.”

She can deduce, from the shape of Zarya’s lips against the side of her throat, that the other woman’s making a valiant attempt to fight off a smile, and losing _miserably_ ; warm breath ghosting over her skin, stippling it with gooseflesh, as Zarya answers, slow, husky, drawling; “I did not think you would complain.”

“Oh, this isn’t complainin’.” Tracer pulls in a slow, steadying breath, lets her fingers uncurl and fan over the other woman’s shoulder, blunt nails catching skin; Zarya grunts, just faintly, the sound almost absurdly gratifying, though Tracer finds herself losing whatever purchase she’s just gained as Zarya’s teeth scrape at the pulse-point of her throat, gently, gently. “Ah, mm. This is what you’d call _pleasant surprise_.”

( _An awkward attempt to strike up a friendship_ had somehow become _London sightseeing tour_ had _somehow_ become _lying beneath_ _Zarya’s well-muscled frame in nothing but her knickers in a bed and breakfast they’d found in Southwark,_ but Tracer wasn’t necessarily resisting the ebb and flow of it. A few points of contention had risen between them—Omnics at the forefront, though Tracer wasn’t without sympathy, without _understanding_ —but they lay buried now, the latent tension of the early days all but forgotten, surely. _Surely_.)

“So what gives you the right to be on top, then?” Tracer asks, fingers dipping down to feel the shift and play of hard-knotted muscle beneath the skin of Zarya’s forearm as she shifts on hands and knees, straddling Tracer’s hips.

  
A soft bark of laughter, the sound deep, but rusty. “If you would like to challenge me for it…”

“You nearly broke my shoulder the last time I tried to _challenge_ you for anything, love,” Tracer protests, plucking at the fabric of Zarya’s undershirt—sleeveless, of course. Come to think of it, Tracer’s not entirely certain that she’s ever seen Zarya wear _anything_ with sleeves. _No wonder,_ she thinks, fingers curling around the bulge of the other woman’s bicep briefly. _They’d probably just— **ka-pow!** Blow right off. Maybe we can test that? She’s **got** to let me buy her a shirt._

She’s dredged so deeply in thought that she barely notices that Zarya’s shifted out of her grip and sat up on her knees, dragging the fabric up and off, over her head, exposing inch after inch of taut, toned stomach and full, heavy breasts. Tracer gives vent to a low, throaty sound, half approval and all heady anticipation, reaching up to toy with them idly, palms rasping against pert pink nipples. Zarya hums her approval, a low, husky sound, rooted deep in her chest, rolling her hips forward idly. A gentle motion, like waves upon the shore.

(Tracer likes gentle, on occasion, with the right soul in the right bed when they’ve all the time in the world without her chronal accelerator playing any role at all, but Tracer hadn’t gone along with this for _gentle_ or _delicate_ or _considerate,_ so the errant hand that strains up to catch the back of Zarya’s head—her shaven scalp soft and prickly beneath her fingertips all at once—and pull her down into a bruising kiss, teeth scoring her bottom lip, nails raking down her neck—is the only logical conclusion.)

Zarya grunts against her mouth, seemingly startled, but reaches down to curve her hands over the jut of Tracer’s hips after a moment, rocking against her with a more desperate fervor, choppy, irregular. Color’s risen high in Zarya’s cheeks by now, almost as vivid as her hair, and this is how it _ought_ to be, fast and frantic and heated, pitched like a battlefield, Zarya’s hand on her stomach, now, trailing down, thumbing the waistband of her underwear and so _close_ to where Tracer needs it to be that something like a garbled whine escapes her throat before she can clamp her teeth on it.

Underwear pushed aside and a single finger’s canvassing the wetness gathered at the juncture of her thighs, stroking almost lazily, Zarya’s lips quirked at one side, considering. Tracer’s heart is _thundering_ , one hand clutching white-knuckled at the sheets while the other digs raw red crescent-moons into the space below Zarya’s shoulderblade. That errant hand is methodical even in its apparent nonchalance, massaging her slick folds idly for a few moments before she lists upwards, nails just grazing skin, to tease Tracer’s clit from its hood, brushing the pad of her thumb over its peak; Tracer flinches slightly, head lolling back, lips parted, a whole-body shudder rippling through her, sparks popping up the length of her spine.

“Love,” she groans after a moment, jaw sagging open. “If you’re going to do this, at least—nng, at least do it _properly_.” Zarya laughs, the sound warm and husky, before that wandering finger slides down and presses _in_ ; Tracer hisses out a long, slow breath, jogging her hips, splaying her thighs slightly to acclimate herself to the stretch (Zarya’s hands are big, and sure, so _sure)_ while the other woman begins a steady rhythm, _beat_ and thrust and _beat_ again, the heel of her palm still grinding down against Tracer’s clit as she leans over her.

Tracer pants out another breath, feels the heat in her cheeks creep downward, slow and splotchy, and as soon as her back starts to go taut and curved Zarya presses in another finger and switches up the tempo, thrusting in quick, now, deep, fingers curved slightly, Tracer yielding readilyto each blunt stroke, hips moving in stuttery tandem, a tension to her thighs, sinews standing in sharp relief.

It’s all Tracer can do to lean up a bit, against the urging of gravity, and sink her teeth into the hard line of Zarya’s jaw to stifle herself, and the world winnows down to only the heat creeping along the jut of her hips, every nerve taut, the slick sound of Zarya's fingers moving within her, still almost languid for the force of them, the pressure mounting in her lower belly, coiling down, down, _down_ —

—heat, wet, and a welcome blankness of the senses, limbs taut and quaking, thighs splayed, the muscles in her stomach fluttering, contracting, her mouth lolling open in a thin, ecstatic sound. It’s long moments before she’s capable of blinking the stars from her eyes, finding her gaze level with Zarya’s forehead, her breaths coming hoarse and raspy. “Well,” she says after a moment, chest heaving and settling, the warm humming weight of her chronal accelerator lifting with the expansion and contraction of her lungs. “That was somethin’.”

“Something,” Zarya agrees softly, still pressed against her knee. She shifts aside, after a moment, onto her side, letting her head rest against Tracer’s chest cautiously. The chronal accelerator resting just atop Tracer’s breasts is humming, just faintly, sleek chrome unexpectedly warm against her cheek. Zarya blows out a surprised snort, and Tracer can’t help but grin down at her. “Yeah, feels weird, doesn’t it? You get used to the sound.”

“Mmm.” Zarya hums consideringly as Tracer does her best to even her breathing out; eventually, the smaller woman shifts to face her, nose scrunched in a smile, leaning up to press her lips to the puckered patch of scar tissue above Zarya’s left brow. Zarya reaches up to brush a finger against the wet impression of teeth marring her jawline. “That will mark, _solnyshko.”_

“Well, hope you don’t mind it too much,” Tracer quips, eyes shining as she presses her nose to the hollow of Zarya’s throat. “Because I think I’m gonna leave a few more.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am BACK and better than ever in a new fandom that I'm not...technically a part of. Anxiety and depression have been kicking my ASS in regards to writing lately, but, as ever, 
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> Hope you enjoy!


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